Falling for the Wrong One
Rating: Teen (May advance to Mature later on)
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or any of the characters.
Summary: They were kinda, sorta friends... at least... she hoped.
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Catherine Willows
A/N: Chapter three! Sorry for any grammar mistakes!
Thanksgiving is in a few days, she realizes herself, when she sees the taped-up paper on the fridge in the breakroom. It's got everyone listed who's scheduled to work that day, and next to the names are individual's handwriting- claiming a dish to bring for the day, a makeshift Thanksgiving dinner of sorts.
They'd done this for the Fourth of July, and Easter, as well. And it had actually been nice.
So as she scans the list, she sees her name, and claims something easy; something she can pick up at the local grocery store. A dessert. Perfect. But as her eyes scan the rest of the list, she notices there's one person missing, not to her surprise. Gil.
And when the day comes, she's the first person to place her contribution on the table. She had taken them out of the clear plastic container, placed them about a decorative plate her mother had given her long ago, and wrapped them in clear cellophane. More people start to shuffle in, placing their own things on the table, and she slips away to get to the lab.
She's got her headphones in, trying to piece together a file for Adam, when a photograph of blood splatter is suddenly all she can see. She's about to fire off some sarcastic remark, fully believing it's Adam or Michael trying to piss her off, so when she rips her earbuds out and looks up, she bites her tongue.
Grissom stands in front of her, an exicted smile on his face.
"What do you see," is how he greets her.
"Happy Thanksgiving," she says flatly, making his smile widen. He'll play along after, she realizes, hellbent on getting her opinion of the photograph. So she picks it up, studies it… and drops it back onto the table in front of her. "A low velocity impact. The size of the droplets are roughly four… to six millimeters in size. Consistent with some type of blunt force trauma."
Blood splatter had never been more attractive to him.
She looks up at him, and it had been all the confirmation he needed.
"How'd I do?"
"You do know your splatter," he confirms, tucking the photograph away. "I've got more of these, you know."
"Ooooh, don't tempt me."
And then he's gone. Just like that.
Hours later, when her stomach starts to protest, she gives in and heads for the breakroom. She doesn't hesitate to grab not one, but two plates, which she fills with an assortment of food; sliced turkey, broccoli and cheese casserole, green beans, sweet potato mash, dinner rolls, banana pudding, and a brownie, to top it off.
It's late in the afternoon, and as she carries both plates of food down the hall, she feels the gazes of her coworkers follow her. As always, he's hidden away in his office, but looks up in time to see her with the two plates of food.
"Thanksgiving dinner," she says, handing him one of the plates. He accepts it carefully, and the silverware she's taken with her. She takes a seat across from him, stabbing a piece of smoked turkey with her fork.
"Did you know that the average consumption of calories on Thanksgiving day is around 4,500? Or that turkey wasn't served during the first feast? That it was most likely venison… or duck?"
"Duck," she asks, a mouth full of turkey, her face twisted in disgust at the thought. He grins, nods, and pops a green bean into his mouth.
It's early December.
She drags herself through the lab, the late nights of studying for finals and working long hours finally starting to take it's toll on her. 'Only a few weeks left,' she'd tell herself, motivating her to get through another shift. But instead of going home to study, she'd resorted to claiming a spot in the breakroom, taking up the couch to display her notes and books.
Someone had stumbled upon her, bags under her eyes and running on caffeine, when they asked her:
"What's wrong with your apartment?"
To which she had replied:
"Kind of hard to concentrate when there's a raging party next door."
And the library? Walking to her car in the middle of the dimly lit parking lot? Pass.
But she's pleasantly surprised when it's Gil that walks in on her, in the early hours of the morning before their shifts are supposed to start. He's got his briefcase in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other.
"Catherine?" He ducks his head to get a better look at her, and double checks the time on his watch to make sure he's not delusional. She's aware of how ridiculous she must look; notes scattered about the place, a pencil stuck behind her ear, dark circles under her blue eyes, her hair on it's second round of dry-shampoo. "What… are you doing?"
"They don't call it 'hell week' for nothing," she mutters, pulling the pencil from behind her ear and letting it fall to the couch. Her back aches, her legs have lost all feeling, and she can feel the beginning of a migraine coming. Rubbing at her eyes, she looks up at him. "What time is it?"
"Five thirty-two," he says without missing a beat.
"Oh, God," she groans, running her hands over her face. She's got approximately forty-eight hours until her first of three finals, but her brain feels like mush, and she can't seem to keep her eyes open. "I lost track of time, I guess." He stands there, uncertainty written all over his face. She lets out a huff of air. "My neighbors at my apartment complex don't understand the concept of 'quiet time' and I've seen too many cases where the girl goes missing in an empty parking lot. I'd rather have the people at work look at me like I'm crazy than be murdered."
He stands still for a moment, scanning the scene before him, before he digs into his pockets, pulling out a small set of keys.
She looks up through tired eyes at the sound.
It takes her a while, but realizes that he's removing a single key from the metal ring.
"I have a spare bedroom. It's not much, but it's got a desk… and it's quiet." He extends the key towards her, but she shakes her head.
"I couldn't. It's fine," she rationalizes, looking back at her small space on the worn leather couch. "I'm fine," she reiterates. "Thank you, though."
"Catherine," he says her name, so softly, that she lets her head fall in defeat. "It's no trouble. I insist."
She accepts the spare key reluctantly, and their fingers brush slightly, and she tries to ignore the quick tingle that shoots down her spine.
"Thank you," she says softly, her voice on the verge of breaking. It was such a Grissom move, she thinks. That although he's only known her the span of a few short months, he'd trust her enough with a very intimate, personal thing; his living arrangements. And he expected nothing in return.
She packs up her things, stops by his office to scribble down his address, and thanks him one last time. He says nothing, but nods silently, and watches her leave… checking his watch once she's out of sight to calculate how much of his shift is left.
She heads back to her apartment first. It's almost six-thirty in the morning by the time her neighbor, Christopher, turns the stereo off. She had to sleep, to take a nap at least, and then she would head to Gil's. She passes out on top of her bed before she can set her alarm clock.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Loud, rhythmic bass shakes the walls, jolts her from a dead sleep. Her neck is sore from falling asleep in her current position, and the pillowcase beneath her is damp with drool. When her eyes adjust to the afternoon sunlight pouring from the blinds, she forces herself up. She's nauseous from the hard sleep, and on shaky legs, drags herself to the sink for a glass of water.
Catching a glimpse at herself in the window above her sink, she grimaces.
A shower was needed.
She towel dries off, brushes her hair, and slips into clean clothes; a pair of gray drawstring joggers, a black crop tank top, and white socks. Her hair has since dried, and curled into natural waves. She forgoes the makeup, and pulls on her shoes. She grabs her things, and nearly heads out of the door until the coldness seeping under the heavy wood reminds her of how cold it is outside.
Her eyes fall on a certain gray twill jacket slung over her chair.
–
She looks up from the piece of paper, double checking that she's at the right building. It's a bit modern looking, and ten times nicer than hers. Slowly, she grabs her bookbag, slings it over her shoulder, and locks up her car. The new addition on her keychain rattles against the other keys, until she's got it between her thumb and pointer finger, poised to unlock his condo.
Her nerves take over, and her heart beats a little faster. Unsure of where the anxiety was coming from, she shakes her head, and unlocks the door. She lets out a breath when the door swings open, revealing a somewhat empty condo.
Flicking on the living room light that's immediately to her left, she gently closes the door behind her. And locks it.
She turns, taking it all in.
There's a neutral colored couch pushed up against the wall, in front of a large window that gives way to the city if you opened the blinds. Small glass end tables on either side, one with a lamp and the other with a stack of journals.
She pulls his jacket tighter around her.
The kitchen is visible from where she stands, a marble-countered island separating it from the living room. Not a thing out of place, not a single dish dirty.
Taking a few steps further into the living room, she spots his small television. And a record player next to it. Even from where she stands, she recognizes the vinyl cover that sits on top of the rest. Her heart does double time, and she softly turns the machine on. Crackling static feels the air, and a familiar voice echoes through his apartment.
She scoffs, shakes her head, and turns the music off.
The strap of her bag is starting to slip, and she readjusts the weight slung over her shoulder.
There's only one hallway, and she descends down it. There are two doors, both closed. One to her left, and one to her right. 'This is Vegas, baby,' she tells herself, smirking at her own joke, she goes left.
She's hit. With the smell of him, and she inhales. Deeply. It's the same scent on his jacket, and it does something to her. It's a masculine, clean smell; one of black cardamom and musk. She wanted to bathe in it. It could only mean one thing, and that one thing being that she was in his bedroom.
'You are invading his privacy. Get. Out.'
But her feet are planted to their spot.
His room is dark, with blackout curtains keeping any sunlight from entering. His bed is on the larger side, a Queen maybe? The sheets are made up, and are also a dark color. Nightstands on either side of the bed, a lamp closer to the right side, where his alarm clock sits and reads 4:14 PM. She turns to leave, when a framed picture catches her eye. It sits on the dresser, across from his bed.
She stops herself. And retreats, closing the door behind her.
–
The hours pass, and she's back on her bender. Notes are scattered about his desk, opened books lay on the carpet behind her, a pink highlighter has fallen to the floor and rests by her feet. She's still wearing his jacket. She doesn't hear him unlock the front door, doesn't hear him close it.
She's in the middle of some chemistry equation when he opens the door, peeking his head in.
"Catherine?"
She jumps in the chair, papers scattering about the floor. She looks panicked, but realizes it's him.
"Jesus Christ, you scared me," she mutters, bending to pick up her lost study guide.
"Hard at work?" She shrugs, looking back at the material she's studied so far. The quietness of his spare bedroom has worked wonders on her concentration, and she actually feels confident.
"It's coming along," she says after a while, feeling the sudden urge to stretch. She yawns, her arms go above her head to loosen up tight muscles, and his eyes fall to the bare skin of her mid-drift, her crop top rising higher the harder she stretches.
He licks his lips. She catches the color rising in his neck. He clears his throat… weakly.
"I ugh… I stopped to pick up a few things on my way." She looks at him with a hint of confusion. "Salmon sound okay?"
She realizes he's talking about dinner, and her mouth falls open.
"You don't… you don't have to do that, Gil," she pleads, guilt flooding her once again. It was already enough that he was letting her study here. And now the man wanted to cook her dinner?
But her rumbling stomach betrays her, and he grins.
"Take a break." He nods his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Come on," he encourages, watching as she slowly pushes herself up from the office chair. He pushes the door open a little wider, his arm propping it open. She ducks underneath it. "Nice jacket, by the way," he mutters as she passes. She grins back at him, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. When he sees her shrugging it off, he shakes his head. "Keep it," he says, pulling the jacket back over her shoulders. "It looks better on you, anyway."
It's the most physical contact they've had, and she starts to sweat.
'You are in big trouble,' she hears a voice in the back of her head say, the familiar feel of new attraction taking over. 'Get a grip. He's technically your boss.'
He passes her, leading her to the kitchen, but when he realizes she's not following, he stops.
"The salmon isn't going to cook itself."
She shakes her head in amusement, and walks up to him, grabbing at his arm and pushing him into the kitchen playfully.